Yalta
by The Rabid Toenail
Summary: England at Yalta, trying to convince America that Uncle Joe is a creeper. Hints of the "Anglo-American special relationship"


AN: Hetalia belongs to ___Hidekaz Himaruya. History belongs to the guys who win the war._

Yalta

"America," England hissed, leaning across the table conspiratorially, his eyes wide and his large brows making funny shapes on his forehead. "You know, that Russia… there's something…" He struggled for the words, wanting to express his suspicions of the other man diplomatically, but failing.

"Err… what about him?" America asked, leaning close enough that England could smell the cheeseburger on his breath.

"Eww. Do you ever stop eating fast food?"

"Umm…" America seemed to think this over, the moe glasses perched on his nose as he tapped his chin pensively only adding to the image. America was all about image, from the aforementioned glasses to his bomber jacket, and England had to admit that even he wasn't immune to America's charming face. Thankfully, America's manners (and the fact that his mouth only rarely didn't contain food) served to dilute the man's allure to a reasonable level, like a spoonful of sugar in a cup of coffee. Still sweet, but with a hint of obnoxious, tongue-stinging bitterness. "…No, I don't think so," he finally concluded.

England sighed. "You idiot."

Shrugging, America held up his McDonald's cup as if in toast. "It's five o'clock somewhere. There's never a bad time for cheeseburgers."

Growling, England snatched America's cup away and slammed it down on the table, causing Coke to go flying everywhere. England was determined to get through to America, come hell or Coke in his eye (and that stuff _burned_, as he was finding out. But nothing would stop him, he wouldn't let it. "America, you shouldn't trust Russia. He's--" England couldn't help but blink, his eyes were stinging so badly, and he had to stop his assault in order to try pawing at his eye to make it feel better.

"Here, would you like a napkin?" America asked, producing a few M-printed napkins from his pocket.

"Oh, thank you," England murmured, dabbing at his watering eyes with a napkin. "But—but like I was saying, Russia—"

"Anybody want some vodka?" Russia asked cheerfully as he strolled in, carrying a large bottle under his arm as he returned from his break. They'd taken a break from negotiations so that Russia could replenish his supply of booze, because of course Russia's powers of diplomacy decreased by seventy-two –and-a-half percent when he was sober. Nobody liked a sober Russian, even the Russians themselves.

"Nobody wants your vodka," England growled, turning his attention back to America. "He's out to get you," he hissed, his eyes wide and serious as he clutched the man's jacket. "He's going to take over!"

England could tell that America was getting distracted by his eyebrows, as his eyes kept darting up to the man's forehead, and he couldn't hold back his aggravated sigh. "_America_!"

Tearing his eyes away from England's eyebrows, America seemed to come back to himself. Sparing Russia a glance, he watched as the man stacked a tower of shot glasses together, like a poor imitation of a child's blocks. "He's fine, just a little odd. Nothing to worry about." America waved England's concerns away.

England gritted his teeth. "_Listen to me_, America. Try to be serious here—Russia's a dangerous guy, I just know it."

"What's wrong with him? He helped us beat Germany's boss—he couldn't be that bad." America held his hands up defensively, unwilling to believe that one of his greatest allies could become his greatest enemy.

"Russia's boss might be as bad as Germany's was." England's voice was cold and flat, his eyes desperate, but America would only look away.

Frowning, the other man murmured, "England, I don't think that's possible."

"Fine," England growled, standing up in sharp, jerking movements. "You eat your damn cheeseburgers, and he'll drink his booze… I need a fag." America watched as the other man stomped out, his fists clenched and his posture stiff.

America blinked. "I… didn't know you were like that, England," he muttered, glancing over at Russia for confirmation.

The silver-haired man shrugged. "Want a drink? He'll be a while."

Teeth gripping a cigarette, England's tongue traced the bitter taste in his mouth as he watched through the window: America, pink-cheeked and full of laughter, leaning against Russia. America had abandoned his Coca-cola for a half-share in Russia's bottle of vodka, and England couldn't help but imagine how America's lips would taste—the familiar sugar-bright sweetness of cola giving way to the fiery roughness of alcohol.

America would see Russia for what he was—someday. But until then, England supposed it was his job to protect his naïve little idiot who wasn't nearly so little anymore, but who was still as bright-eyed and trusting as he'd always been.

He couldn't give that up to Russia—he just couldn't. So he stamped his cigarette out on the concrete and stumbled back inside, and pretended not to care that America's flushed face was turned toward Russia and not him.

AN: So the secret's out. This is what history majors do in class-- write Hetalia fanfiction on little yellow post-it notes instead of paying attention. Hopefully, more to come.


End file.
